


Turning Point

by wildpeace



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Thor (Movies)
Genre: F/M, I truly believe they were betrothed at a young age, Sif/Thor - Freeform, Thunderwar, Young Sif and Thor, because Thor's a grown up and can make his own decisions, because come on Odin totally ships it, no Jane hate here though, though seriously thunderwar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2015-08-13
Packaged: 2018-03-23 14:39:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3772027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildpeace/pseuds/wildpeace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A dinner on Asgard.  A new dress.  A young prince who has no game and gets easily confused.  A girl who wants nothing more than to be a warrior and fight for herself. A smattering of realisations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I heart thunderwar so much. I just want to smish them together and yell NOW KISS PLEASE THANK YOU. Jamie Alexander and her adorable Lady Sif are not helping.
> 
> Thank you to my Chickee for putting up with me spamming her with my thunderwar feels, and thank you all for any comments. They are always much appreciated.
> 
> Oh, also, all ages of the characters written are comparable. I know Asgardians live for hundreds of years. So when I speak of them as being teenagers, they may be actually over 100, but it's to get the idea of looks and behaviours. I hope that makes sense.

She is dour and sullen at the feast, but Thor can’t stop looking at her.

 

They are fifteen, and he’s fairly certain this is the first time he has ever seen her in a dress. The skirts swish around her ankles, crimson overlaid with silver, and her dress is cut straight across at the collarbone, held at her shoulders with brooches decorated with shining red stones. Her hair – normally always pulled back for efficiency when practicing her fighting – is loose around her face. He watches as she tries to hide behind it, her face twisted in a scowl.

 

The men – his father and his father’s warriors – have returned triumphant from battle. They sit around the table telling stories of their victories, and so Thor is confused by Sif’s air of detachment – usually she listens with rapture and hangs on every word. Today, however, she toys with her food and shifts uncomfortably in her seat.

 

The meal is a long one. Cups are filled and filled again and at some point music begins and the voices and tales become more raucous. Loki falls asleep at the table and his mother takes her leave to escort him to his chambers. Thor wonders if he, too, shall be encouraged to retire, but she passes him without a word and he feels a sliver of pride at clearly being old enough to stay and revel with the men. For the first time that evening, he and Sif share a look of excitement, and he is glad to see her finally smile.

 

Late past evening finds them outside the main hall, leaning on one of Asgard’s long glistening balconies, throwing scraps to his father’s ravens, watching them swoop and dive in the open air.

 

Groups of men pass – the festivities clearly winding up, the scent of wine hanging thick and heavy – and most simply ignore the youngsters. It is only when one of Odin’s young warriors – a man Thor recognises by face but not name – walks by, that they are addressed.

 

“Late festivities, for ones so young,” he comments, a crooked smile on his lips and the aura of mead around him.

 

Thor raises his chin, “My father permitted us stay,” he counters, ready to argue, but the warrior simply nods his head. He takes a weaving step closer.

 

“You must take heed of your lady, young Prince,” the man begins, leaning in, his hand landing on Sif’s shoulder. Her face is blank, her well-bred manners winning out; she doesn’t move. “Many warriors look to continue their conquests after dark, and such a face would be a prized victory.” His thumb sweeps across her bare skin, and he winks heavily at Thor, who stares stony-faced back at him.

 

There is a long silence, and then the young warrior laughs, removing his hands, holding them up in supplication. “Apologies my liege. I believed I was talking amongst men, but I see I was mistaken.” The words burn into Thor’s ears; he feels shamed, but doesn’t truly understand why. “I shall leave you _children_ to your game.”

 

Despite the man’s words, his hand drops down, this time missing Sif’s shoulder and instead grazing her narrow waist. “Good Lady,” he addresses, his voice a murmur, and Thor watches as his fingers trace around the curve of her body.

 

He can see Sif’s face harden. He wonders where she has hidden her dagger in those clothes, but has no doubt he will find out if the warrior’s hand wanders any further.

 

“Enough,” Thor snaps, and his words hold an authority he hasn’t heard from his own lips before. He sounds almost like his father. “You should be run through with a sharp blade, touching my future queen in such a manner. Apologise to the Lady Sif for your insolence and then take your leave promptly, before my lenience abates.”

 

The warrior looks surprised and then bemused. Arching his back, he bows, arm pressed across his chest. “My apologies, m’lady,” he says, and Thor thinks he sounds almost sincere. “I wish only to convey my admiration of your beauty, now your attire states you are officially a Maiden of the Court.”

 

Thor doesn’t really understand his words, but he can see the way the blush paints light over Sif’s cheeks and down her neck.

 

“Leave us,” Thor orders the other man, imperiously, and then watches as the young warrior bows again before striding down the long golden halls.

 

He and Sif are left in silence. She shifts on her feet, and her brows knit into a frown. He’s expecting her thanks, and so doesn’t understand when she turns on him, her voice full of ire.

 

“I do _not_ need your protection,” she tells him firmly, arms held taut at her sides, her fingers bunched into fists. “I may have to wear a dress now – be a _woman_ now - but I can still fight as well as any man!”

 

“Sif I - ” he begins, but she cuts him off by hitting him in the shoulder, hard.

 

“Do you respect me?” she asks, hands on her hips and a strand of hair falling from the silver combs that hold it back.

 

He is affronted by the question. Puffing out his chest, he folds his arms in front of his body, defensive. “You know that I do.”

 

“Then do not act as though you should fight my battles for me! He is not the first man to behave in such a manner towards me and I should imagine he will not be the last. Trust I do not need your position nor sword to fight in my stead.”

 

She is breathing hard when she finishes. His bottom lip juts forward. “I am not a child.”

 

“And I am not a toy nor a prize to be fought over with other boys.”

 

They stand in the hallway for a long moment, simply staring at one another. Thor wonders if he has ever seen her looking so fierce, and is almost surprised when the angry blush in her cheeks makes him wish to grab her and hold her against him. His fingers tingle at his sides.

 

A low, firm cough from behind them makes both of them start. The Allfather stands, silhouetted against the low burning light of the great hall, his ravens swooping to come to his shoulders.

 

“The feast is over,” he states simply. “Thor, see the Lady home, and return to chambers. Not,” he adds with a wink in Sif’s direction, “that she is incapable of finding her own way, but because I should grant you the pleasure of her company for a few moments longer.”

 

Neither can argue with Odin, so they both simply nod, clumsily murmuring their thanks, and then heading off down the long halls together. Arms swinging down by their sides, their fingers brush accidentally, and Sif looks at him oddly.

 

At the door to her chambers, he clears his throat to break the silence, standing back from the entryway. “Sif...I...I should."  He pauses.  "You do…you do look fair,” he tells her finally.

 

She laughs then, and the sound is bright and rich and makes him feel both a little stupid, and warmed from the inside out. On tiptoes, she presses a fleeting kiss to his cheek. “Next time you compliment me, try and avoid sounding so surprised.”

 

*


	2. Scything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Many speak of her golden hair as her crowning glory._
> 
>  
> 
> The story of Sif's hair.
> 
> ***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone who commented and kudosed the first chapter. This scenario was requested by Fanfiction_Connoisseur and I am happy to oblige! Hope this meets expectations, even if it is only little. Enjoy!

Many speak of Sif's hair as her crowning glory. Like a field of sun-dappled wheat it hangs in perfect waves against her shoulders, bright and pure. Wound into braids it is filigreed gold, precious and beautiful. 

What a picture they make, the future king and the golden-haired warrior, people whisper about the city. How Thor’s betrothed already echoes a young Frigga, already looks a part of the family. The royal heirs, their hair of morning sun. 

*

She is drugged on the battlefield. Whether by sorcery or poison no one knows, but it leaves her crippled and incoherent, writhing against the arms of those that try to protect her. 

Thor is far, fighting legions to the north with Hogan of Vanaheim. He is a staunch warrior, taciturn but true, and Thor has taken him into his trusted circle with ease. 

Fandrall tries to hold Sif tightly, one hand over her mouth to shield the screaming that she seems to utter without notice or care. Enemies are nearby but at a point unknown, and the warriors curse as Sif’s eyes roll back and her body shudders as though bathed in the ice of Jotunn. 

Footsteps are heard. Lumbering, crashing footsteps that care not for stealth, only bloodshed. 

At the sound, Volstagg draws his axe, and Fandrall wishes he could free a hand for his blade, but he is trusted with the Lady Sif's care in Thor's absence - his self-appointed role but one he shall not deny. She is limp in his arms, vulnerable, so unlike herself. Fandrall scans the horizon, their surroundings, looking for cover, but they stand in open land. 

His face must read his unease, his fear, because suddenly a hand reaches for his elbow, its partner lightly brushing the lady's golden braids. 

"Let me. I can keep her hidden until we have victory."

Loki is young, but talented with silver tongue and sorcery taught by his mother the queen. Fandrall knows his trickery can hide two from view - he has seen the brother sons of Odin use the advantage in both games and battle before. 

"Take her and be gone from here until victory is assured."

They cannot open the Bifrost. It would leave Asgard vulnerable to attack and all the warriors know this. Loki, skin pale, draws the fallen warrior into his arms, her body pressed closely to his, and with the faintest whisper, they are gone. 

*

Later, when the battlefield is scattered with bodies and weapons and smatterings of blood like rainfall, Fandrall sends Volstagg one way and takes the other himself, calling out for the young prince and his charge. Horse hooves clatter across the grounds, loud as thunder.

Thor rides to them swiftly, having vanquished the enemies in the north. He doesn’t even bother to dismount his horse before he asks who has fallen. His eyes scan his men, studying injuries, his sword still hanging from his hand.

His eyes notice her absence almost immediately, but he doesn’t mention her name until Fandrall explains her falling ill to sorcery or poison, and his brother’s promise to shield her. Thor’s face hardens into a stony mask at the news they are both still missing, and he rides out into the field of their enemies’ bodies before even waiting to hear the rest of the story, calling their names.

When he finds the two, it is at the edge of a river running red with blood. Loki has taken a blade to the shoulder – one half of Sif’s favoured double blade, clearly picked up and wielded by an enemy – and grips the wound with one hand. This, Thor does not find surprising. What is surprising is the ground around them; her golden hair litters the grass like scythed wheat. Against her scalp, only bloodied tufts remain.

Loki’s eyes are wide as his brother approaches. “Sorcery,” he explains as Thor picks Sif up, cradling her shorn head against his broad shoulder. “She took my dagger. There was nothing I could do.” 

Thor takes a long time to respond. He holds a hand out to Loki, pulling him to his feet. “I thank you brother, for her care.”

*

In the healers' tent, Sif stirs but doesn’t awaken. After studying her in the soul forge, the healers say she will sleep until her body defeats the bewitchment, but cannot say whether it will take hours or days. Thor sits by her side, her hand held firmly in his own. The healers shake their heads at her shorn locks. “Sorcery,” the oldest woman tells him, touching Sif’s pale cheek with sympathy, the blue sleeve of her healer’s gown pushed back from a slim, bony wrist. “It was cut with a magic full of malice – I fear it will never grow back.”

Thor nods his head. Between his own palm and his love's, a single lock of Sif’s golden hair lays, silken and limp.

*

The dwarves create new hair for her, at his father’s command, but something in the magic of its removal means it will never again grow the colour of sunshine. When her waves grow back, they are as dark as the night. No one dares whisper it, but she looks more of Loki now, than the would-be king. 

Sif is not vain, but it takes a long while to recognise herself again, without her golden hair. Weakness continues to plague her limbs as the dark locks grow past her shoulders, but she does not let it halt her training, and in kind Thor does not let it halt his kisses. 

He traces her cheek with a single finger. “Now I have my own raven.”


End file.
